Not Any Old Greaser
by Ariadne Glover
Summary: Delaney is like any other Soc, running around with Mummy and Daddy's money, living in any girl's dream home, wary of every Greaser in the neighbourhood. But something happens and one Darry Curtis is there to help...


**So I haven't uploaded in a while. I know. I'm dreadful. For those of you who are reading this story because I'm on your alerts list, first of all, I love you to pieces; second of all, I will update my older stories. By the end of this year, my goal is to have everything on here up to scratch, rewritten, finished and sparkling.**

**For those of you who have come across this becaue you're reading Outsiders fanfic, WELCOME TO MY LAIR. Seriously, we ride pink llamacorns and eat varying flavours of peanut butter icing. I'm glad you have stumbled across this story!**

**And for that one person (A newbie to , be nice to her y'all) who I wrote this for, here's your Darry love. :P I spent a good while trying to come up with a nice OC for you, so here you go. And to delight you even more, I had so much fun writing the first chapter, there are a few more in production!**

**Hope y'all have a good read, and if you would be so kind, please review, it would mean a lot to me!**

**~Ariadne x**

* * *

When you finally see your life flashing in front of your eyes, what do you want to see? A successful career, with knowledge overflowing from the narrow confines of your brain? Hundred dollar bills falling from the sky over your mansion, swimming pool and personal designer golf course? A husband or wife who loves you to pieces, with children running around a small but cosy home?

I know what I want to see when I take the plunge from life into death, and I know who I want to be there with me, holding my hand as the life slips away from my body. He's been there through just about everything that has hit the headlines, maybe not the frontrunner himself, but he's always there, if you look between the gaudy titles and read the fine print, you'll see his name. Lots of people in my neighbourhood know him, practically everybody in town; he's a well-liked guy and I don't know anybody who has a bone to pick with the man. Except perhaps his younger brother from time to time, but then again, sibling rivalry is common everywhere; I can see that in my own little brood already and they're not even five.

But still, I can ask myself these questions, tell myself what I want, what I need, what my children need, but I can't communicate them to _him._ I'm not even sure why – He's very resilient, very protective and more than often, sickeningly masochistic. Does it mean that I'll stop loving him because I can't ask him the deep stuff? Of course not, I'm not as stupid as I look; I'm not just any old bimbo Soc, as hard as it is to believe. Perhaps that's why the man married me in the end, that one Darrel Curtis, he's a dark horse that one, marrying little old me. Six years ago, I doubted if I even wanted to get married, do the whole family shindig, and look at me now. It's incredible what a little tender love and care can do to the damaged soul.

Maybe I'm just prattling on about philosophical stuff because only now do I feel that everything I know is being threatened, or maybe I'm worrying about nothing. I've always been like that, jumping to conclusions, jumping the gun, but now there's evidence stacking up against my Darry and I don't know what I'll do if the accusations are true. My life will be over. The kids' lives have barely begun and already will be in shambles. Don't even get me started on his brothers' lives, his friends'… And what will he have achieved? All of nothing, that's what.

I think I should explain from the beginning what is going on, how I met the love of my life, how the stuff about the calm before the storm is entirely true, how the storm never truly ends.

* * *

_Late, late, late,_ _you are very late, Miss Delaney Terrace, late!_ My brain sings a merry song as I run about trying to find my shirt, crisp and white, lost amongst the dirty mountains of laundry that mark the landscape of my bedroom. In theory, I should be embarrassed that I've let my room come to such a state, but I couldn't care less; it's organized mess. Or it is most of the time. Today I just can't find the blasted shirt and I need it, really need it; you can't sway me with the fact that I don't need this shirt, because I do. It could, quite possibly, make or break today, this shirt. I might be exaggerating a bit though. I've got my first job interview today and without this shirt, first of all, I'll be topless (Which might cause a bit of a problem in front of the interviewers), second of all, it's the only thing that goes with this skirt and blazer ensemble. Of course, it's about an hour until show time and I'm still to apply my make-up, still to curl my hair and put in a tidy chignon, and get my sorry ass down to the café I'm applying at.

Already, I can imagine the café owners standing in the doorway of the shop with a scowl on their faces, tapping their watches; 'That girl is late,' they'll say, 'Of course, she looked like a regular old ditzy.' If they knew that I was a Soc, adults never have understood these…cliques us 'kids' hand around in, then perhaps they would've given me some leeway. Then again, they're already grumpy that they're hiring a high school drop-out, let alone one of those girls who depend on their looks to get them through life. People wouldn't give me a chance if I didn't at least attempt to look attractive, I don't exactly have a winning personality.

I must've stood in front of my window thinking for too long because a couple of Greasers in a battered car whistle at me. Shrieking and cursing, I flatten myself against the floor, army soldier style and crawl around, still looking for my shirt. Before long, I can see it, hidden down the back of my bed, pinned between the headboard and the wall. Typical luck. Pale fingers just can't reach it from the floor, not without dislocating my shoulder; and I can't get up without getting gawked at by those Greasers. Bit of a dilemma I have here.

Screw it, I stand up, yanking my shirt free and button it quickly, giving the foul young men next to no time to cop a perve, not on my watch. I know that they were annoyed by that, they were yelling, jeering, dirty slurs, throwing bits of gravel at my windows, the usual stupid stuff adolescent boys do. Over time, one learns to ignore it and carry on with life, even when that one insult really makes to want to smash a pop bottle over their heads. You heard me right – a girl with a pop bottle, and I'm pretty good with one, if I do say so myself.

Into the bathroom I go, hobbling about as I tuck my shirt into my black pencil skirt. The room has to be about the size of a public bathroom, but without the cubicles, multiple toilets and sinks, and the disgusting smell. It's done up in nice rose pink tiles and cream paint, my parents made sure that wherever I chose to go after I left school was more than wonderful, they gave me a lot of money indeed. Enough to not have to work for a good two decades or so. They think they can buy my love, think they understand me, that money will bring their delightful daughter back. Ha. And still, after growing up with luxuries most people don't dream about, I want to feel useful, which is why I'm trying to get this waitress gig, might be hard for an eighteen-year-old girl with no qualifications, and who dropped out of school two years before.

On this thought, my gaze turns to the mirror plastered to the wall, and there in all of my five foot glory is me. I'm not proud of how I look; my cheekbones are a little too pronounced, chin slightly more than jutting, eyes small, narrow, like they're permanently angry at the world. My smile is thin, fitting into parallel to the space between my eyebrows. I'm not even going to go into my nose, it's horrific. The one thing I do like though is my hair, I've always liked my hair, and I'm glad I do. The other girls I know, or used to know, hated theirs, dying it ridiculous colours and filling it with ridiculous hair clips and bands until they looked about as real as the mannequins in the stores they bought their clothes from. My hair, however, is thick and luscious, falling to my shoulder blades in sharp blonde streaks, and it is an indulgence on my behalf to get to style it every day.

Hair pinned back into the same elegant chignon that I'm pretty sure that I've worn for the past eight years, makeup subtle but not too subtle, simple jewellery keeping my ears warm, and I'm pretty sure that I'm ready to go. Bag: Check. Blazer: Check. Not overly-bright smile: Check. I reckon I look pretty good if I say so myself, and that's brilliant – If you've got me believing I look alright, you're on the right track. Perfect, everything seems perfect. Maybe this'll turn out better than I thought? My confidence is brimming at the moment; I might just be able to pull this one off. But my first step out the door proves different.

"Oi, Soc, what you doin' on our territory, huh? Go back to the hell you came from. Oh my God, she's dressed up and… boys, I can't see any tits! No tits! She looks decent; boys, we've gotta sort this!" The same looming group of post-pubescent Greasers burst out of their car, cigarettes drooping from their lips, which are curled in menacing smiles. One of them busts a pop bottle on the post outside my house, holding it loose in his hand, shards of glass splintering the skin on his legs, but he doesn't seem to notice. They're all skinny, underfed, and had they been nice, maybe I'd have invited them in for a sandwich or something. The ringleader kicks my bag away from my hands, and there go my keys with it. Maybe I wouldn't have invited them in.

"We're going to cut us a nice view, hear that, Bambi?" he snarls, circling me as the other boys do the same. I manage a pathetic smirk in an attempt to act defiant, rolling my eyes and strolling in the direction of my bag. If I can act nonchalant, they might go away.

"Listen, _Greaser_, I've got a place to be, we can deal later, hm?" Eyebrows shoot up around the men at what must've been a witty retort to win such a reaction, and one of them grabs my hair, yanking me back so his face is close to mine. I can smell his garbage breath and boy, could he have done with a breath mint or two. Struggling, pissed he's touched my hair; all I am awarded with is a sharp knee to the back that sends me sprawling to the gravel in pain. My hands are cut with the glass that was smashed not too long ago and I try to not let it get to me, even though I can feel my eyes prickling thanks to the pain radiating from my hands, the indignity of lying in the dirt, the horror that a bunch of men are going to 'get' me, so to speak. Screaming as I'm pulled by my ankle, flipped and pinned against the ground by the larger men, one starts to unbutton my shirt. The same shirt I spent a good twenty minutes trying to find.

A roar comes from behind me, a deep, gravelly roar, and the heads of the four Greasers snap up with a slight anger tainting their expressions of delight, "Get off the lady!" the mystery voice demands, and between the sound of blood pumping through my ears, I can hear heavy footsteps coming near me. The man unbuttoning my shirt, grubby fingers still dangerously close to my chest, gives a snort and proceeds with his doing, ignoring the man still approaching.

"I said, get off the lady!" repeats the voice, louder still, and whether it's due to my fearful delirium or not I don't know, he sounds a bit like Superman. Suddenly, Mr I Like Tits is keeled over in the foetal position, protecting his head from the brutal kicks that he's receiving. One of his mates laughs, weaving his hand up my leg and I shriek again, louder than ever, unable to kick him off because he sat on my feet. I wonder how he's gotten away without a heel in his ass. A muscled flash and the one who felt me up joins the other guy on the floor, a beating sure to follow. The two other Greasers take off like a duo of hounds, quick as a flash, their broken and bloodied comrades taking longer to stumble along after them.

Attack over; what is there left to do? Oh yes, go into shock. My already tear streaked face crumples further and I curl up into a ball on the ground, hyperventilating between each sob, heart thumping irrhythmically. Slowly but surely, I'm coming to terms with what just happened. I had walked out of my house, been beaten, pinned down and nearly - _oh gosh -_ by a group of wild mongrels. The thought was sickening, offensive, mortifying. All in a matter of minutes too, and if this mystery fellow hadn't turned up, I'd have been toast.

"Hey, lady, calm down, hey? Shhh," says the fellow softly, sitting me up with gentle hands, keeping me up with his arm around my shoulders, otherwise I'm sure I would have fallen straight back down, my skeletal system appears to have stopped working. It was too close for comfort, but I daren't say so, from the appearance of the guy, he's a Greaser too, and sure looks like he could cause a hell of a lot of damage. I stifle my crying to a thin stream of tears running down my face, breathing still ragged and heaving.

"I'm Darry," he mumbles, sighing a deep sigh, and he glares at the drying blood on his boots and the bruising on my knuckles, already starting to show – Not too phased by it at all. Darry kind of looks like Superman too; I smile inwardly at the thought, remembering that in a way, he is Superman. Or to me at least.

"Delaney," I whisper back, unable to say much more, not even a thank you. I'm still terrified that he's going to do something to me, that he kicked the pack of hyenas away so that the lion could feast. Perhaps he can read minds, because he pulls his arm away and just rests a hand on my shoulder.

"Delaney. Right, well, can I get someone for you?" I shake my head slightly, "We'll get you back in your house then?" I shake my head again. If I'm alone, then they'll get me, and I'm not exactly in want of that to happen. Darry coughs a little, shuffling awkwardly, even I know he's uncomfortable, "I wouldn't normally ask… But do you want to come to my place for a little while?" Once more, I'm shaking my head. I barely know the guy, plus he's a Greaser. They're always unpredictable, dodgy and extremely shady. Any Soc knows that. Besides, all he's probably thinking is 'Hey, a Soc, and the buttons on her shirt are undone! Tits!'

I've known a good many guys, and that's all they ever think about: Tits and sex and drugs and alcohol and cigarettes. They're a despicable bunch, I know that much. This is the main reason I've already planned on not getting married, instead, I'll find a job somewhere and work for the rest of my life. But even I know that's unlikely, I reckon I'll probably just end up living off my parents' money like every other Soc in the world.

Darry tuts a little and indicates to my hands, still bleeding and full of grit, "Let me at least clean those out for you," he says, a tight smile on his face. Obviously, he's the kind of guy that doesn't do this often, especially not for a Soc, I can see him better as the quiet man who keeps to the corner of a room and observes everybody else.

"O-Okay." Stuttering. _Great_. An attempt to button up my shirt hurts too much, so I pull the bigger buttons on my blazer through the buttonholes and am done with it. I'm all covered up enough. Pulling me to my feet and keeping an arm around my waist to stop me from keeling over further into the glass, Darry helps me to his car, a tidy, but not pleasant, Ford pickup truck. And we're off - I'm off to heaven knows where with a strange man. Do I not learn from my experiences?

* * *

"SODAPOP!" There's that roar that saved me from the thugs earlier, yelling through his own house, or so I assume it's his house, and a boy a couple of years younger than yours truly comes bouncing along. Wow, is he a stunner or what? He's the spit of Darry, but there's just something that clicks and he has a movie star-like beauty to him, a clichéd kind of pretty. This 'Sodapop's jaw drops as he sees me, taking turns between gawking at Darry and I, who explains to me, "This is my younger brother, Soda." I nod shyly, sitting in the seat indicated to me.

"Darrel Curtis has brought home a Soc girl…Woah!" Soda exclaims, a friendly grin on his face, although it makes me wonder if I've made the wrong decision and if I've just walked into a house full of juvenile delinquents. _Associating with juvenile Greasers, really now, Delaney girl?_

Giving his brother a smart look, "Delaney here's just been-" an eyebrow raise and Soda's features shift into an expression of sympathy; he looks like a hurt little puppy and I can't help but want to hug the boy and made him stop looking so sad, "-So I'm going to make sure she's alright," finished Darry, still standing in the doorway of the house, ready to go and get things. Soda nods and sits next to me, Darry leaving the room.

"He doesn't normally do this," he remarks, a new type of grin on his face, a face that looks like it has been ever-smiling, "Normally he'd have left you where you were." My turn for my eyebrows to raise, skyrocket, up my face. So my guess was right; the mysterious Darry had been nice to me out of the blue, and why? I don't know and apparently neither does Sodapop.

"Scoot, brother," growls Darry, carrying a bottle of brown liquid, bandages and a clean cloth. Soda shot me a playful smile before disappearing out of the room yelling, "PONYBOY! PONYBOY, PONYBOY, PONYBOY!" To which Darry rolls his beautiful eyes. They are nice eyes. A kind of blue-grey hue that is cold as steel and as warm as a winter's fire all at once.

"Sorry, this might sting a little," he excuses; pouring a few drops of the liquid, I'm sure it's disinfectant, onto the cloths and sponging my hand with it. I wince and a small squeal of pain comes from my mouth, to my horror. Darry chuckles slightly, but doesn't smile, focusing on cleaning my hands out; he does it quickly and efficiently, like he's done it many a time. He probably has, I realize with a slight jolt, he's a Greaser, and they get in rumbles with our boys all the time. I've forgotten this, he's so unlike any other Greaser I've met before, tender and caring… It was weird.

"Good as new," he says, clipping the bandages around my hands into place, and planted a delicate kiss on top of each. He offers a quirky smile, slightly awkward, as if he's shocked himself with his own moves. This, of course, sends me into a whirling blush, scarlet creeping up my cheeks. But now, I'm realizing something new.

Darrel Curtis was a Greaser. _And he was nice._


End file.
